


The Fallen

by Rigel99



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-03-31 10:02:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13972680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rigel99/pseuds/Rigel99
Summary: For Vienno. I got the sense that you didn't want it to end on a "stalemate." :)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dassandre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dassandre/gifts).



> For Vienno. I got the sense that you didn't want it to end on a "stalemate." :)

“Call me that again…” James’ voice rough with pleasure.

“Earn it,” Q exhaled, the words condensing in a light film of fluid upon the cool wall against which his chest was pressed, surface smooth beneath the palms splayed flat, James’ fingers fitting comfortably between and around them, trapped head to toe in the most delicious bind.

The front door had barely closed behind them before James had Q’s trousers and underwear pushed down to his knees and his cock pushed between his cheeks, still slick from fellating him to semi-hardness in the car outside Bond’s apartment.

“Again,” he growled, demanding.

But Q was not one to be told. The chain of command was his to exploit.

“No,” he mustered, strong and seductive, pushing his hips in retaliation to Bond’s persistent demands.

Bond grabbed the hair on the crown of his head and tilted it back, stilling his hips while sinking his teeth gently into the pulsing heat of exposed neck.

“Then prepare yourself, Q. You’ve got a long night ahead…”

He released him then, suddenly, bending down to yank up his trousers abruptly. Q was breathing hard, turning to face him but not looking at him. Instead his gaze lingered on the door slightly ajar at the end of the hallway.

Bond had positioned himself against the wall opposite, casually leaning his back against it, watching the Quartermaster closely. He palmed his own cock with slow but deliberate intent.

“I really ought to get home. My cats will need feeding…” Q said, face still turned away, eyes still trained on the door down the hallway.

“Is that rhetorical? Because it doesn’t take a spy to note the words coming out of your mouth have zero bearing on the body language I’m reading right now.”

Q pushed himself from the wall and stepped deeper into the agent’s lair. “You can read, Bond? I’m surprised you even know what a book is. You certainly don’t read the manuals that accompany my equipment.”

“When you trust your instincts and they are as reliable as mine, manuals are moot, Quartermaster,” Bond said, following.

Q’s cardigan dropped from his shoulders onto the floor before they reached the bedroom door. He turned to face the agent, framed in the opening, Bond’s bed in the background, waiting to be wrecked.

Slender fingers reached for the buttons on his own shirt, Q allowing his gaze to finally travel up the body before him to meet storm blue eyes. “This piece of equipment requires careful study in order to operate at peak efficiency,” he stated.

The shirt fell. Their gazes held. The dam broke. The first kiss, torrential.

There would be no fixing this.

The silken quilt cover was cool against Q’s backside, not a crease on the fabric now being seeped through the heat of his body. He ran his hands across the material, while Bond loomed large above him, still standing before him, a silhouette of barely-repressed want and perhaps a hint of danger.

Q liked danger.

“You haven’t slept here in weeks, have you?” Q asked, meeting his eyes once more over the rim of his glasses. Bond had removed his own jacket and shirt and was just in the midst of undoing his belt. He knelt down then to slip Q’s underwear, trousers and socks off.

“Haven’t had a good enough reason. Until tonight…” he replied. He remained kneeling, both his hands resting on the top of Q’s feet. Q waited. Patience was after all the mark of a good Quartermaster and also the mark of a better one was being able to read your agents.

Bond’s palms circled around his feet to caress his ankles. He knew he couldn’t win this battle but he’d be damned if he’d make it easy for the lad.

Q smiled. He knew he was searching for weaknesses that could be exploited.

“Again…” Bond whispered, this time a little less demanding, a little more coaxing, pushing his hands up Q’s calf muscles to pause at the back of his knees. The touch was light and restrained and all the more intense for it.

Q shuddered but his resolve held.

“You think I want to give you the satisfaction of hearing that word, spoken so soft against your skin by the women who would fall on their backs for you with little more than a look?”

He smiled and rested back on his elbows on the bed, inviting Bond to traverse the length of his thighs.

“You don’t know me very well do you,” he sighed, the tone of his voice one would use on a child with lessons still to be learned.

Bond’s hands returned to the back of his knees and yanked his body easily towards him, parting his legs as he did so Q’s now fully erect interest came to rest between the crevice of strong, firm chest muscle. “I’m starting to,” Bond replied, lips moist, waiting, a brief breath away from their inevitable destination. Q held his.

Stalemate.

* * *

**Earlier that day, The National Gallery**

Q did not believe it a coincidence that he saw Bond first. He had studied his file beforehand of course. Little would be achieved being on the back foot when coming face-to-face with James Bond. Arrogant, self-assured and indestructible as he had once again proven with his recent return from the dead. One might argue it a rather unorthodox approach to taking a leave of absence but then, very little about Bond could be considered orthodox.

He gave little away, approaching the bench in front of The Grand Temeraire as a businessman on a lunch break might, merely to leave behind the drudgery of his London office and escape into a world of colour and light that echoed from the past.

He took the seat carefully, no doubt still a little bruised and joint sore from the gruelling physical earlier that morning. He checked his watch and Q watched the slight raise of his shoulders into a sigh.

Taking a deep breath he made his approach to take the place next to him.

Bond bristled at the invasion of space.

Let battle commence.

* * *

“Ladies and gentlemen! May I have your attention please?!”

In the midst of their snark-filled exchange in which innovation and efficiency searched for common ground, Bond and his new Quartermaster turned as one to the lone voice that echoed around the normally peaceful rooms of the National Gallery.

“You must be joking…” the agents muttered simultaneously.

A young man, no older than 20 years, was standing in the middle of the room. To say he looked terrified would be an understatement. He was holding his jacket open and turned carefully in a full circle so everyone in the room could see the suicide vest strapped to his torso.

Amidst the screams of several women and children and the young threat shouting “Nobody try to be a hero and no one gets hurt!” Bond sighed, returning a tired gaze to the Turner in front of him. “Why couldn’t we have met at MI6 like normal people?”

“Hate to state the obvious, Commander Bond, but we are most certainly not normal people…” Q mumbled quietly so as not to draw attention. He slid the black box between them and stood, “follow my lead, 007 and put my kit to good use.”

Before Bond could do anything, Q had taken the initiative.

“Oh God, GOD! Please don’t hu-hurt me! I’m so young, just started a dream job, have two cats who would miss me terribly. You don’t have to do this…” Bond marvelled at the act, the wide-eyed frightened boffin putting on a convincing display of fear and trembling. He stumbled with helpless gangly-limbed abandon towards the younger man who took a confused step back.

“DON’T!” he cried out. “It’s remote detonated! They’re watching!” But Q was already clasping the hem of his jacket, everyone in the room fighting the urge to run or frozen to the spot at his display. Q clawed at him, using his frantic despair to shield the fact that he had taken advantage of his proximity by slapping the EMP device he was to give to Bond onto the bomb vest. The boy shoved him onto the ground.

“ENOUGH! They WILL kill ALL OF YOU if you don’t comply!” he shouted.

Q was still looking at him while he spoke. “Anytime now, 007.”

“With pleasure, Q,” he replied coolly, pressing the button on the EMP detonator, he had during Q’s moment of distraction, sequestered from the box also containing his newly-issued Walther PPK.

The disrupter reaction flowed through the vest, disabling any remote signalling device and causing its wearer to spasm and fall to the floor.

“Amateurs,” said Q to no one in particular and standing up to brush the imaginary dust from his trousers.

While many frightened tourists ran screaming from the room and a few more curious rubberneckers hung around to see what would happen next, Bond and Q wandered over the the prone man, still twitching in a semi-conscious stupor.

“Loathed as I am to admit it…” Bond began, coming up behind him.

“You don’t have to say it, Bond. Be a shame to break the habit of a lifetime,” Q replied with casual nonchalance, pulling out his phone to dial the police.

Bond decided there and then he liked this one. A lot.

“Can I give you a lift back to MI6, Quartermaster?” he offered after he’d hung up the call.

“That would be lovely, thank you,” he said with a tight smile.

“Marvellous,” Bond rumbled, heading towards the exit while security bustled in with some police officers to condone off the scene. “Just have to swing by mine and pick something up on the way.”


	2. Chapter 2

The banter continued on the ride through London, fresh reinvigorated energy flowing back and forth the narrow space between Bond and his passenger. Bond loved London but never lasted long before the itch to get back in the field starting niggling at his feet. He was rapidly warming to the idea of having something to scratch that itch between missions.

“So how long have you worked at MI6? Or am I going to need written permission from your parents to get an answer to that one?”

Q remained facing forward. “It can’t be easy can it…” he mused.

“What’s that then?” Bond dared to ask.

“Being such an insufferable prick.”

Bond couldn’t help but take that one on the chin. The lad wasn’t wrong.

“I frequently popped to Q Branch and don’t ever recall seeing you,” he continued, unfazed.

They drew to a stop at a traffic light, some of the London pedestrians casting appreciative glances at the Aston as they crossed in front of it.

“Well I recall seeing you, Mr Bond. Bit hard to miss the galactic-sized ego when it popped in to give my superior his weekly dose of Double O headache,” Q retorted.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Bond replied, shifting the gear and pulling forward into the traffic. “Q loved my visits. I’m sure you’ll come to love them equally as much.”

“Oh I don’t think so, 007. I’ve already had clearance from M to install security keypads to Q Branch entry points.” He was grinning like the cleverest bastard in a room for idiots. “Don’t have codes, can’t get in.”

 _As if a door with a lock could stop me,_ he thought. “Hmmmm,” Bond hummed. “We’ll see about that…” Bond replied, pulling the car into the underground park beneath his building and killed the engine.

They sat for a few moments in the dark. Bond was acutely aware of everything about his passenger; a soapy, sweat-infused body odour; soft, slow breaths; the way his long fingers remained unnaturally still against the tops of his thighs. He could sense the nervous energy beneath the surface but Q did an excellent job of keeping it visibly contained.

His instincts were nudging him. And Bond was never a man to ignore his instincts. No matter into how much trouble they could potentially land him.

“That was an impressive display today. At the Gallery,” he hazarded a compliment he hoped sounded genuine.

He found he meant it.

Q looked at him then, the semi-darkness accentuating the sharp lines of his jaw and hollow cheeks. His eyes were half-closed. Bond couldn’t determine in the minimal light if it was suspicion of his purpose of the comment or desire to follow up on it. He hoped for the latter.

“It wasn’t a display, Bond. I served for one year in the field before I settled in Q Branch. Boothroyd took me and two other proteges under his wing. I made the final cut.”

Bond felt there was more to come so opted to remain silent.

“Because yes. I am that fucking good,” Q finished. He clicked out of his seatbelt and did the same for Bond with one hand while reaching for the fly of his suit trousers with the other. Bond made no attempt to stop Q from freeing his cock from its confines. A sharp inhale at the gentle firm grip escaped his lips.

“Is this SOP for introducing yourself to all the Double Os?” he growled, tipping his head back against the seat’s headrest in response to the roll of Q’s wrist and his rapidly hardening reaction to the touch. Q was watching him, gauging the flex of Bond’s fingers around the steering wheel, the slight but noticeable judder of his hips.

“I’ve read the file of every Double O that now falls under my jurisdiction whilst in the field,” Q replied, matter-of-factly, his hand smooth and unbroken in its motion around Bond. “You will find my SOPs unorthodox but highly effective,” he concluded, before dipping his head and enveloping him.


	3. Epilogue

_Stalemate…_

It was a stalemate Bond couldn’t hold for long. Not that he was much in the mood for games. The teasing blowjob Q had elected with which to bless him five minutes earlier in the Aston had been unexpected and utterly delightful. It deserved a conclusion that satisfied both parties.

“Think you can make me beg? You’re not in much of a position, Quartermaster.” A hot breath against the inside of his thigh had Q shuddering in anticipation.

“Oh I disagree, Bond. You may be a cantankerous, unmanageable, reckless idiot in the field, but I believe you to be a gentleman nonetheless. Particularly in such a situation as we now find ourselves.”

“I concede you’ve got me there,” Bond replied, holding the longing gaze of his Quartermaster at the barest gap between Bond’s lips and the tip of his cock. His erection flexed towards his belly, a momentary retreat from the warm air of Bond’s words ghosting over his exposed and sensitive skin.

“Tell me what I want to hear,” Bond whispered, hands continuing their firm caress and glide up the tops of his thighs and sides and back down his stomach. He slipped his hands between the mattress and Q’s buttocks, the touch firm and bordering on possessive.

Which he had absolutely no right to be. He knew nothing of the lad. Except that he was his superior officer.

“Tell me…” Bond repeated, sliding trigger-calloused fingers deeper.

Q arched his back, felt the word tremble on the tip of his tongue and slip unbidden in response to Bond’s lips engulfing him.

_“Commander…”_

Bond smiled. 

No. There would be no fixing this.


End file.
